


My Brain Says I'm Receiving Pain

by ImpulsivelyBlue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Harry, Evil Harry, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpulsivelyBlue/pseuds/ImpulsivelyBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry understands hate now, it was almost a strange and unreachable concept before, one only found in history books that lay beneath a layer of dirt and grime on forgotten shelf. He knew fear and great dislike, but even after everything he had been through he had never understood hate.</p><p>He did now, it was something that curled sluggishly through his veins, all-consuming and all reaching, seeping in to every part of his being and casting his mind in shadows of his own making and experiences. His blood felt like it was infected, like it was poison blood, curling around him like a snake hissing and spitting I this mind and in his throat, clouding his vision and squeezing its way in to his bones.</p><p>He knows hate, knows it like a second skin, knows it like breathing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Brain Says I'm Receiving Pain

**Author's Note:**

> "My Brain Says I'm Receiving Pain" - title from Radio Head 'My Iron Lung'

\---

Harry understands hate now, it was almost a strange and unreachable concept before, one only found in history books that lay beneath a layer of dirt and grime on forgotten shelf. He knew fear and great dislike, but even after everything he had been through he had never understood hate.

He did now, it was something that curled sluggishly through his veins, all-consuming and all reaching, seeping in to every part of his being and casting his mind in shadows of his own making and experiences. His blood felt like it was infected, like it was poison blood, curling around him like a snake hissing and spitting I this mind and in his throat, clouding his vision and squeezing its way in to his bones.

He knows hate, knows it like a second skin, knows it like breathing.

But from all of that hate, all of that burning and pain and shadows there had to be a reason for it. There had to be someone that had brought this hate crashing down in to his being and wrap it around him like choking hands at his throat.

It was the self-proclaimed light lord that bore the burden of Harrys hate. It was Dumbledore that had sent him away and failed to protect his and so many others. It was Dumbledore that had set in motion the events of his parent’s death, the death of his godparents.

It was an old fool that missed his days as a saviour, a man to be respected, a man of pour that had raised a child to be the darkness he was to face, he had started wars. And he had done this with no regard for the cost of those around him. He was the reason Harry had lost so much when he decides that Harry was the child he would mould in to a new chess piece to use and throw way as he pleased.

It was Dumbledore that brought about Harrys hate.

Harry was a casualty of a bad game, a wrong move on a changing chess board. His parents, his family, his life were nothing in the hands of Dumbledore; he had been stripped down to nothing and remade in a way to fill someone else’s desires.

But now, now he is going to tip the board, throw away the chess pieces and play his own game. He is going to ripping Dumbledore apart, starting with the way the mindless followers see him before he really started to do an damage at all, tarnishing the old mans poisoned legacy. Harry was going to rip him down to nothingness, crushing until there was but a memory of a man that once tried to rule everyone in his own game by starting wars and building his own when he did not. Harry was going to pour his own poison, his own hate in to Dumbledore until the fool knew nothing but his hatred.

There was nowhere on this earth or the next that Harry would allow the old man any rest. He would drain oceans and oceans, litre by litre. Flatten mountains and raise his own hell while he brings Dumbledore’s self-styled heaven crashing down before he allowed the old fool the mercy of death.

Dumbledore will know nothing but Harry and Harrys hate, he will not seek rest, permanent or otherwise, he will be hunted.

And Harry will enjoy every minute of it.

When they stand against each other, the hunt only beginning even if the prey was still unaware of its place in the new game, still desperately trying to pull his own pieces to his side, Harry will know what it to happen. He too stands with others, but with players rather than pieces, each ready to drain oceans and crush cities to have their own anger know, their own hatred felt, hunger written on their faces. Harrys lips barely move when he speaks, voice carrying far and heard by all, bursting with his poison as he gives the only order they needed to hear.

"Destroy them all."

\---


End file.
